Notorious - A SuperLock Fanfiction
by SuperlockianHobbit
Summary: A sudden string of deaths has been appearing in Western Europe; Sam and Dean are sent to London -the predicted location of the next target- to set things straight. When the brothers get there and begin to pry, they meet Sherlock Holmes and John Watson. The four end up collaborating on the investigation, only to have things go terribly wrong when time runs short.
1. Pinpoints

The bright computer screen cast an eerie glow on Bobby Singer's face as his eyes scanned the various articles on the website. The hunter glanced at the clock by his side only to see it was half past midnight. He groaned and returned his focus to the laptop. After clicking past a few news reports, a certain spectacle caught the man's eye.  
Bobby skimmed through the article with a renewed motive; it spoke of a recent string of deaths appearing all over Western Europe. All occurred at the same time and on the same day, the recent one occurring just yesterday. The hunter read on with high hopes, only to be disappointed when the article merely went on about the deaths and the victims. Just as Bobby motioned to click off the site, a small cluster of the victims' photos came into view and stopped him in his tracks.  
All pictures displayed were of simple inanimate bodies, no grotesque wounds or abrasions of any sort except for those acquired by the person themselves before death. At first Bobby had to blink a few times to be sure what he was seeing was true; victims of presumable homicide were left untouched in all ways deemed inhumane. Something was definitely wrong with the case, other than the fact that people with on-peak health were dropping dead.  
Another paragraph came into view just beneath the collection of photographs. Bobby pursed his lips and skimmed through it until he found something standing out from the rest of the information.  
"'_All victims were left unscathed except for traces of an undisclosed toxin found in their bloodstreams; antemortem records showed decent to near-perfect health, yet all were announced irrelevant to the deaths_,'" Bobby read, his eyes narrowing in suspicion. "'_Many suggest a cunning serial killer is behind the presumed-homicides; for all victims died on the same day and time. However, the bodies showed no sign of forced injection or ingestion of the toxin. Many suggested oblivious consumption of the toxin, but the most recent victim proved the theory wrong. This has left doctors in the dark on the chemical's appearance in the bloodstream._'" The hunter scratched his chin in frustrated thought and glanced upwards to see Sam sitting at another table nearby, fingering through pages of ancient books while Dean was laying on the love seat going over old case files, slowly drifting out of consciousness.  
Sam met Bobby's gaze and immediately noticed the concern in the older man's eyes.  
"Everything alright, Bobby?" Sam asked, slamming his book shut with a loud thud. Dean flinched and sat up quickly on reflex, his bloodshot eyes snapping open in alarm.  
"Don't slam the damn book," the older Winchester snapped, rubbing his temples. Sam flashed his 'Honestly, Dean?' look, and returned his focus to Bobby.  
"String of deaths over in Western Europe. One death a week. All victims died at the same time and on the same day - 1:39 a.m. on a Thursday - and all were reported to be physically healthy except for the same chemical found in all their systems, based on what the autopsies came up with." Sam perked up at the hearing of this and furrowed his eyebrows. He rose from his seat, crossed the room, and leaned against Bobby's desk as he eyed the older hunter.  
"How many victims?"  
"Four," Bobby replied after skimming through the article again. The younger Winchester shifted in his spot nervously.  
"Think this might be a case?" Sam asked. Bobby looked up at him uneasily in response.  
"Sounds like it. I'll bet you all my money that this 'undisclosed toxin' of theirs is sulfur." Sam nodded and thought for a moment, before suddenly looking up at Bobby with a familiar gleam in his eyes.  
"I think I have may have a lead; in which parts of Western Europe did these deaths occur?" Sam asked. The older hunter narrowed his eyes and read through the article once more.  
"First death was in Lodz, Poland. The second once was in Lyon, France. Third death was in Odense, Denmark. The most recent one - the fourth - was in Zagreb, Croatia," Bobby replied. Sam nodded slowly and made his way to the other end of the room, where a map was pinned against the wall. There were already a few thumbtacks marking certain locations, but Sam pulled out the tacks and tabbed the locations of the deaths instead.  
He fished some string out of a drawer nearby and connected the points by said sequence; he tied a knot on the tack marking 'Lodz, Poland' and brought the string down southwest in a straight line until he came to 'Lyon, France', tying a knot on that tack. Afterwards, he pulled the string up slightly northeast in a straight line until he came to the tack marking Odense, Denmark. After tying the knot there, he brought the string down southeast until he came to the tack marking Zagreb, Croatia. He tied the last knot and let the remainder of the string hang loosely.  
Dean was eyeing the map and Sam intently all throughout, while Bobby made his way out of his seat and walked over to stand beside the taller man while he worked with the string. After the younger Winchester had finished he began to look over his work, surveying the resulting mixture of an I and X marked by the string. Dean stood up quickly and dashed over to the map. Despite his tired state, the skills and knowledge acquired from hunting kicked in immediately at the sight of the strange symbol.  
Sam glanced to the side to see Dean eyeing the map intently as he approached it, a strange gleam in his eyes.  
"Dean-" Sam was cut off my Dean shoving past him to get to the map. The older Winchester didn't say a word as he took the remainder of the string and pulled it northwest in a straight line until it reached the spot marking London, United Kingdom. Dean pulled off a tack from above and tagged the location. Afterwards, he pulled the string back to Lodz, Poland. After tagging the location with the thumbtack, the hunter stepped back and looked at the result; a devil's trap.  
Sam and Bobby stared at the map with wide eyes, marveling at it, yet growing uneasy with the visual.  
"It's a large devil's trap-in-progress. Each death is a point on the star," Dean stated flatly. He furrowed his eyebrows and pursed his lips in thought. "Now who would be so devoted to bother making this masterpiece?"  
"First of all, we can't be sure that this is meant to be a devil's trap, I mean, after all, there's still tons of locations left to check off if the deaths are going to mark up a legitimate trap." Bobby said.  
"Look, I don't believe in coincidence, and I know something's not right here. The chemical in the bloodstreams, (our idea of) 'normal'-yet-unexpected deaths, and the result looking more and more like a devil's trap is nearing the 'out-of-the-ordinary' point for me." Dean countered. The trio pondered on the issue for a moment before they all moved over to the living space; Bobby sliding into a seat beside a nearby table as Sam and Dean claimed the couch. The three faced one another and thought.  
"What are you trying to suggest by all this? There's demons in Europe too, just as there is hunters. Let's assume that they'll take care of it," Sam said.  
"If those hunters knew something was up then there shouldn't have been a fourth death," Dean muttered, glaring at the map and devil's trap, both seeming to taunt him. Sam rolled his eyes and sighed, leaning back against the couch in defeat.  
"Maybe they didn't catch the trail yet, I don't know. What I _do _know that we aren't messing with the case until we're sure that it's more than a hunch and that we're sure it's not being taken care of." Sam concluded. Mere moments later Dean did a double take, his eyes widening.  
"Bobby, you don't by any chance have tabs on a few hunters in Europe?"  
"No, but I have an idea of who mi-" Bobby was interrupted by a loud chime ringing out from the man's back pocket. The hunter fished out his phone, quickly glanced at the caller I.D. and accepted the call, placing the receiver next to his ear. "Garth?" He asked, his eyebrows furrowing in concern. Sam and Dean exchanged uneasy looks before returning their focus to Bobby again.  
"Why'd he call?" Dean asked quietly, staring up intently at the older man. Bobby glanced at Dean but didn't respond. Instead, he sat down again and remained silent, except when he muttered the occasional "Alright", "Idjit(s)", or "Balls" into the receiver. When he finally hung up, the Winchesters were staring at the hunter expectantly.  
"Garth. The person who I was intending to call before he himself rang me up," Bobby began, pausing to stare at his phone in defeat. "Ironically, Garth called to inform me that his connections with a few fellow hunters over in Western Europe had been cut off. Turns out there isn't as many as I thought over there which were still in the hunting business. Anyways, connections with those still hunting started breaking off about four weeks back - right about when the deaths started. The last of the connections Garth had with the European hunters crashed yesterday."  
Dean bit lip and rubbed his face in frustration. Sam ran a hand through his hair and furrowed his eyebrows.  
"In other words, Dean had a point with these deaths and the devil's trap," Bobby added. "And I want you two to check the case out." The hunter looked at the map and presumed location of the next death.  
"You want us to go to London?" Dean questioned, growing slightly pale at the thought.  
"Based on what you pin-pointed up there, yes." Bobby replied, causing the older Winchester to grow even paler in outcome. Bobby caught sight of Dean's face and rolled his eyes, sighing heavily.  
"It's just a plane, ya idjit. People are dying and hunters are going missing; cram that damn fear up your ass and get over it." Sam stifled a laugh and smirked. Dean scowled and flashed Sam a menacing look. A moment later the two got up and walked into the room next door to begin packing.

As Dean shoved a few pairs of jeans into his duffel bag, he couldn't help but give in to the nagging at the back of his mind.  
"Hey Sam, think maybe we can call Cas and ask for a lift?" The older Winchester suggested casually, attempting to keep all forms of fear out of his voice.  
"You're not serious, are you?" Sam scoffed as he stuffed a flask of holy water into his own bag.  
"Yes, in fact, I am serious," Dean suggested.  
"Is this because of the case we did a few years back? The exorcism on a plane?"  
"Well, what do you expect?!" Dean exclaimed, sounding more like a stubborn 5-year-old by the second. "Whenever I'm a plane I always have a near-death experience, either before, during, or after the flight." Dean insisted.  
"Dean-"  
"All of that can really mess with a man!"  
"_Dean-_"  
"And at least I'm not scared of clowns!" Dean added irrelevantly.  
"_DEAN! It. Is. A. Plane._" Sam glowered.  
"PLANES CRASH!"  
"APPARENTLY CLOWNS KILL!"  
The brothers continued to bicker until a shout sounded from the other room;  
"_WILL YOU IDJITS SHUT UP ALREADY? GOD DAMN, YOU SOUND LIKE AN OLD MARRIED COUPLE!_" Bobby yelled. Immediately Sam and Dean fell silent. They avoided one another's gazes and resumed packing before heading back into the study where Bobby sat, a scowl plastered on him face. "Kids," he muttered before standing up and handing Sam a manila folder.  
"What's this?" Sam asked, eyeing the folder.  
"I printed out the article and a few reports I managed to scavenge on the case. I added a few notes and made a hand-copy of the map you and Dean put together." Bobby replied. Sam smiled slightly and nodded in thanks. The trio then said their goodbyes and parted.  
Sam and Dean made their way out of Bobby's house and slipped into the back garage. At the sight of his Impala, Dean felt a smile start at the edge of his lips. The two brothers approached the car and stashed their bags in the trunk. They then walked to the front and climbed inside. Dean fished out his keys, started the car, and revved the engine a few times before driving out of the garage, past the various piles of scrap cars and metal, and out onto the main road.  
Dean ran a mental series of directions from Bobby's to Sioux Falls Regional Airport, and seconds later had the route embedded in his mind. He then fished out an old cassette - a favorite of his - from a nearby compartment, and pushed it gently into the player. Moments later "Burnin' For You" was blasting through the speakers on full volume as Dean sped down the vacant road.


	2. Something Stirs

When John Watson walked into the kitchen that morning to see a mutilated head nestled on its dish sitting at the end of the counter, he immediately knew the day would be a long one. The blogger sighed heavily and approached the stove, setting the water to boil. He didn't bother consulting Sherlock about the head, for it wasn't the first one he'd woken up to. Besides, the smaller man had practically grown accustomed to seeing something of the sort every day for the past few months.  
A few minutes passed and the kettle began to wheeze, to which John responded by turning off the heat and pouring some of the hot water into his mug. The ground coffee mixed with the water and set in the usual brown mixture John chugged down every day. After grabbing a nearby newspaper off the counter, John made his way over to the living space and plopped down onto his armchair, setting the hot cup of coffee down beside his foot as he motioned to unfold the paper.  
Before the man was able to read even a word, Sherlock Holmes burst into the room, wearing only a loose white shirt, black flannel pants, and a blue robe tied untidily around the waist. The detective paid no attention to John as he began to dig through files and folders tossed carelessly on the table in the center of the room.  
"Good morning to you too," John muttered as he plucked his mug off the ground and took a long sip. Sherlock didn't reply and continued fumbling with the documents. The doctor pursed his lips and returned to his newspaper, seeing that Sherlock was in one of his moods and wouldn't be talking any time soon. The detective finally seemed to find what he wanted, and, after grabbing three manila folders off the table, he made his way back to his room.  
John placed his mug down again, turned the page, and began reading the heading displayed on top. His train of thought stopped short after reading the title.  
"'_Strange Deaths Appearing In Western Europe; Who Is the Mastermind Behind Them?_'" John read to himself, looking at the issue through all aspects as he read on about the mysterious deaths, the only lead being the undisclosed chemical found in the bloodstreams of all victims. The blogger rose from his chair and dashed over to Sherlock's room, unable to contain himself at the hearing of a possible new case. The man approached the door and sighed, then raised his hand and knocked on the door several times. Only after the 5th knock did the detective respond.  
"Leave me alone, I'm working," Sherlock shouted from inside the room.  
"I've got something bigger than a measly case," John said quickly before he could stop his excitement. He only couldn't help himself, for he'd been isolated indoors or at the clinic for what seemed like ages (although Fridays and weekends were his days off). Sherlock had been going to cases solo for the past month or so due to the higher demand of John's presence at the clinic. "It's in the papers. Strange, yet plotted, deaths. The only-"  
"Lead they've got is the chemical found in the bloodstreams. I know," Sherlock replied flatly. John felt his hopes begin to die down ever so slowly. "I've been working on that case for the past three days already." The doctor furrowed his eyebrows.  
"Three days? The story just hit the news today."  
"I knew there was a pattern even before the fourth death, John. I've been on the case ever since then." Sherlock stated. John frowned and turned the doorknob to find that the door was open. The smaller man made his way inside the room to see Sherlock stooped over his bed, which was a mess of unmade sheets and papers. The detective glanced at John and beckoned him over.  
"Why didn't you say something earlier?" John asked as he made his way over to his colleague. Sherlock remained quiet for a moment before responding.  
"Because I didn't want to startle you," Sherlock said with such an expression that made it hard to believe he could have cared any less.  
"Startle me?" The blogger raised his eyebrows and smirked. The consulting detective didn't share the other man's enthusiasm and glared at him.  
"Yes. There's something stirring in Western Europe, and the next target is here, in London," Sherlock said darkly, glaring at John with utter seriousness. The smirk disappeared off John's face immediately while his gut began to drop.  
"How do you kn-"  
"I'll explain later. Right now I need to get to the lab. And you're coming with me."


	3. Encounter

"I still don't see why Cas can't pop us over to London. If you just let me summ-"  
"Dean, _stop._ He isn't your puppet, and I bet he's got more important things to worry about up in Heaven right now. Just because he and you share a more 'profound bound'," Sam quoted, causing Dean to grow slightly red at how Cas had made it sound, "doesn't mean that you can summon him whenever you need him for something. Cas is not a tool, he's a celestial being. I thought you of all people would understand that."  
Dean clenched his fists around the wheel until his knuckles turned white.  
"I still don't like the idea of flying over there," the hunter mumbled, to which Sam responded with a heavy sigh.

At the airport, Dean waited impatiently beside an empty vending machine while Sam was left with food duty. There was a line at the ticket booth, and the brothers settled on waiting for it to shorten before getting in it themselves. This was especially relieving for the older Winchester. Now, the two had no choice but to get comfortable for another hour or so, and that involved eating something to ease the stress (according to Dean).  
But now that he was alone, the hunter couldn't help but feel vulnerable, out in the open as he was. There was a strange tension in the atmosphere of the airport, as if something was brewing. Dean brushed the feeling aside, blaming it on the constant hunting and "quality time" he had with monsters. The man looked around, searching for something to keep his eyes on. Unfortunately, all the women in the airport were either too rushed to pay him mind, or were too dressed up to be worth his attention span and effort. Dean knew he wouldn't get anywhere with anyone here, so he groaned and slung his and Sam's bag over his shoulder as he made his way over to the bathroom up ahead.  
Dean entered the long hall of urinals but redirected himself over to the sinks and large mirror. He dumped the bags down next to him as he proceeded to splash his face with cold water in attempts to cool down.  
In all honesty, Dean wasn't willing to get on a plane at all. It was no secret, but the older brother was much more distraught than necessary with the mere idea of flying. It wasn't his fault that the last time he'd been on a plane it had nearly crashed after a nearly-unsuccessful exorcism.  
At the memory, Dean dipped his face in water again, then looked upwards and blinked a few times before grabbing a paper towel to wipe his face. He squinted through the remnants of the water and dabbed them away. After his vision was cleared, a janitor was revealed to be standing just a few inches behind the hunter, his cart left abandoned a few feet back.  
"Is there a problem?" Dean flatly asked, wiping some excess water off his ear.  
"You," the janitor replied. Dean opened his mouth to make a sarcastic comeback only to be stopped when he saw the janitor's eyes involuntarily flash black in the reflection of the mirror, returning to their original brown color a millisecond later. The hunter gave a believable chuckle and plastered a forced grin on his face.  
"Is that so?" Dean asked mockingly, casually hooking his thumb on the waistband of his jeans; his knife was merely a layer of clothing away from his grasp.  
"You're not getting on that plane, Winchester," the janitor hissed. Dean was partially taken off guard with how quickly the demon dropped the act, but instinct kicked in and he pulled out the knife. However, the creature was fast, and it maneuvered past Dean's attempt at a stab and charged into him. The hunter flew back with a shout, his head slamming against the mirror, the glass shattering from the impact.  
Dean was knocked out cold almost immediately.


	4. Blood

"Sherlock..." John whispered uneasily as he trailed after his companion up the hospital stairs. This part of the building was dark and silent, and the two men seemed to contrast with the tense atmosphere radiating off the walls. "Why couldn't we just wait? The labs open up in 2 hours."  
"No time, Thursday is our deadline," the detective responded.  
"How would you _possibly _know that?" Sherlock didn't respond and pressed up against the wall, snaking his way up the remainder of the stairs before turning into the hall and heading towards the glass doors just a few feet ahead. The detective dashed forward silently and crouched in front of the door, picking at it the lock two strange utensils John wasn't able to make out in the darkness.  
There was a quiet click and the tall man stood up and opened the door, walking inside casually. Sherlock flipped a switch beside the entrance and a quarter of the dimmed lights flickered on. The detective shed his coat and gloves before retreating to the back of the lab where his usual spot was located along with his personal microscope. The man sat down onto the cushioned chair and slid out a small plastic baggie from his pants pocket. In it was a tiny piece of tattered cloth speckled with blood.  
Sherlock grabbed a pair of tweezers from a nearby container, slipped on some synthetic gloves, and plucked out the cloth from the bag, sliding it into the Petri dish positioned underneath the microscope lens. John resided to the back to observe Sherlock, looking back at the lab door uneasily, expecting to see a guard or passerby which would get them caught. To his relief, no one passed by the lab.  
John returned his focus to his colleague, and after staring at the other man observe the strange piece of cloth for a few moments, began to grow restless.  
"You said you needed me here, why?" John questioned. Sherlock didn't reply, his eyes and mind scanning the small amounts of blood and blocking all other thoughts out. The doctor rolled his eyes and walked off, finding interest in a 3D printer he didn't expect to find in a lab.  
Sherlock zoomed into the blood sample even further until he was able to see a detailed visual of the cellular structures. What he saw confirmed his theories; some of the cells were a strange yellow pigment.  
"Sulfur," Sherlock stated aloud in monotone. John looked up from the printer and stared strangely at his flatmate.  
"What?"  
"Sulfur," Sherlock repeated. "That's why you're here." John furrowed his eyebrows and approached the desk Sherlock was working at, sliding into a seat and resting his elbows on the table.  
"What does sulfur have to do with me?"  
"Tell me, how can it be possible that there is thrice the amount of the normal sulfur percentage in a person's blood?" Sherlock questioned in response.  
"_What? _It can't be," John exclaimed, rushing over to the microscope. Sherlock leaned to the side as the smaller man peered through the lens. "Bloody _hell_, you can see the damned pigment of it rubbing off on the other cells."  
"I am aware of that, John," Sherlock responded. "All of the victims' blood samples show identical results; remnants of sulfur resided in their bloodstreams prior to death. The forensics reports I gathered stated that the sulfur wasn't seen in such vigorous amounts in antemortem blood tests conducted for all victims. The most recent victim proved this to be true, given that they died almost immediately after they got blood-work done. The sulfur wasn't there, and the only reported abnormality was the person's behavior after their visit to the lab."  
"Abnormality?"  
"Well, given that the receptionist was in hysterics after the whole scenario, her report was almost automatically discarded; I wouldn't consider it credible; she claimed that the victim walked out of the lab, approached her desk, and wished her farewell," the detective said.  
"How is that strange?"  
"That's what I thought myself until I read the rest of the report," Sherlock stated.  
"And what did you find?" John pressed on the issue. Sherlock licked his lips and sighed, unsure of what to think.  
"The...receptionist claimed that the person's eyes were completely black."


	5. Redeemed

Sam Winchester was walking back to where he had left Dean with their luggage, two greasy paper bags and a cardboard cup holder burdened with two coffee cups in hand. He was running a mental overview of the case through his head when he came to the spot where his brother was supposed to be, only to find that the older Winchester wasn't there.  
Sam nearly dropped the food as his heart skipped a beat.  
"Dean?" Sam called urgently, looking around with wide eyes. He dashed over to the spot by the vending machine, only now noticing that their bags were missing too. He placed the food on top of the machine and looked around quickly, scanning the airport. Maybe his brother went off with some girl? Maybe he went to get something or moved somewhere else? But if that had been the case, Dean would have notified him, or the trip would have been a short one given that he presumably took the luggage with him.  
Just as Sam was beginning to consider the worst, the deafening crash which came from the men's bathroom a few feet away confirmed his thoughts. The hunter cursed and dashed forward, running into the bathroom as he pulled out the pocket knife he had to downgrade to for the occasion of travel. He ran inside the official bathroom to see his brother laying unconscious in the sink, his head bloody. The mirror above was shattered and Sam already understood what had happened.  
What seemed like a simple janitor was hunched over Dean, a gun trained on his brother's head.  
"Hey!" Sam shouted in anger. The janitor spun around and his eyes flashed black in entirety, confirming Sam's thoughts once more on the scenario. The hunter flicked open the blade from the pocket knife, grabbed the blade, and threw it at the janitor. Sam's aim and timing was accurate and the knife wedged itself into the demon's eye, causing the janitor to hiss in displease and drop the gun.  
Sam knew not much damage would be done given it was a demon, and so the younger Winchester took advantage of the time received from the distraction and started to quickly shout the exorcism he had forcefully engraved into his mind; "Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus, omnis satanica potestas, omnis incursio infernalis adversarii, omnis legio, omnis congregatio et secta diabolica!"  
The janitor began to groan and twitch, doubling over before coming up again screaming, a cloud of black smoke erupting from its mouth and spiraling towards the ceiling.  
After the demon retreated, the janitor crumbled to the ground. Afterwards, Sam ran over to the body, tugging the knife out of the man's eye socket before pocketing it and running over to his brother.  
The automated sinks had been running the whole time, and in outcome Dean was almost completely soaked. The water drained red due to the blood leaking from an abrasion on the back of his head. Sam hooked his hands underneath his brother's shoulders, dragging him off of the sink carefully and resting him a few feet away from the shower of shattered glass.  
"Come on, Dean, it's going to be alright," Sam repeated with false hope as he gently turned Dean's body to the side to get a better look at the wound. The sight of small specks of fat and skin accompanying the laceration made the hunter revolt, the blood added to the visual making the picture seem horrifying. After placing a hand over Dean's mouth and nose to find no airflow, and after checking his brother's pulse to get no response, Sam screamed in agony and defeat. He grabbed Dean's shoulders and lightly shook him.  
"Dean? Dean! _DEAN!_" Sam began to shout, cursing multiple times when his brother gave no response; he knew any help for him at this point wasn't going to be of any benefit. But a sudden alternative came into mind, and Sam went along with it almost immediately, for Dean seemed to be getting paler by the second.  
"_CAS!_" Sam began, skipping the formally-composed prayer one was supposed to say. "_Cas, I know there's a lot going up in Heaven, but I really need your help right now. It's Dean...he's-he's not breathing and I've got no pulse, I-_" Before he was able to finish, there was a flutter of wings and a burst of wind.  
"What happened, Sam?" A very familiar husky and gruff voice sounded from behind the hunter. Sam craned his neck and looked up at Cas with glazed eyes. The angel wore a mask of utter concern and determination, his eyes grave. If it was even possible, Cas seemed to look extremely tired and stressed. His hair was more ruffled than usual, and his eyes were rimmed in red.  
"Dean...I didn't know...there was a demon...I was getting food for us...I didn't-"  
"Stand back," Cas commanded nonchalantly. Sam obliged without protest and the angel crouched next to Dean's unconscious body. After observing him for a few seconds, Cas finally reached over and placed a steady hand on Dean's forehead. There was a burst of white energy and Dean sat up abruptly, his eyes wild.  
"What the hell happened?" Dean breathed.


	6. Eyes

"_'The person's eyes were completely black'?_" John questioned, gaping at Sherlock as if the man was mad.  
"Based on the reports, yes," Sherlock responded rather calmly. John continued staring at the seated detective, before he proceeded to rub his eyes and temples wearily.  
"You know what," John began after a long stretch of silence, "I say that we personally meet up with this receptionist and ask about the report." Sherlock eyed his colleague with a strange look.  
"You're saying you don't believe me?" the detective asked.  
"I'm saying that I don't believe the report; '_black eyes_'? I mean really - it's ridiculous," John replied incredulously. Sherlock glared at the doctor for a moment before nodding curtly and turning back to his sample.  
"Alright," the detective finally replied after a few minutes had passed.  
"What's that supposed to mean?"  
"That I agree with you; we're heading to the hospital at 7." Sherlock glanced up at John again, "A.M.," the detective prompted after an inquisitive look passed over John's face.  
"Why 7?"  
"The receptionist works the night shift - starts at midnight and ends at 7:15 a.m. If we are to interview her, it's to be soon. And, even more convenient, the recent victim's body is being held in their morgue as well." At this, John glanced at his watch and felt his stomach drop.  
"It's 6:48," he breathed. He glanced up at Sherlock only to see the detective already pulling on his scarf and trench coat.  
"My point exactly," Sherlock stated, and began to march out of the room. John cursed as he slid off his seat and made to grab his own jacket, fumbling with the sleeves as he tried to tug the garment onto himself. The doctor stumbled after his flatmate and the two made their way out of the hospital discreetly.  
Once outside, the two men proceeded to the curb ahead and halted beside the road. It was rather early, and yet, cars were already littering the streets along with the slowly-increasing bustle of London's inhabitants. John waved an arm in the air and before long a cab pulled up to the two men; Sherlock slipped inside the vehicle silently, John following after and shutting the door.  
Only when John nestled himself on the smooth cab seats did he realize that he wasn't aware of which hospital they were even heading to.  
"Address?" the cabby grumbled wearily. John gaped at the man stupidly before Sherlock suddenly spoke up in reply; "27 Tooley Street."  
"London Bridge Hospital?" the cabby inquired. Sherlock had already blocked out the man as he had begun to stare outside, and thus the cabby looked at John for confirmation.  
"Erm, yes," John added awkwardly, and with that the driver faced the wheel once more and revved the engine. The cab inched out of the space it was wedged into beside the curb and sped out onto the street, the early morning traffic jam seeming to dissipate.  
In a matter of what seemed like a few short moments, the cab was parked beside a rather large building perched on the southern bank overlooking River Thames. John thanked the cabby, tossing him a few notes for the trip, and he briskly exited the cab with Sherlock in tow.  
"7:05 already," John commented as the two approached the massive hospital building. They passed through the glass doors and emerged into an enormous circular lobby, one which seemed rather calm compared to the bustle of London outdoors. An occasional nurse or doctor accompanied by a stretcher burdening a person strolled by and disappeared down a corridor or elevator. The entirety of the lobby gave a feeling of comfort rather than the tension usually contained within any average hospital. Soft-looking couches and armchairs were scattered all around, all perched on matching red Safavieh rugs.  
Three wide hardwood desks were stationed in each part of the lobby, five halls running in-between the spaces of the desks; a pharmacist sat behind the desk located on the left of the lobby, bottles and bags of prescriptions taking up the areas around him, as well as the very large shelf erected behind him; a middle-aged nurse sat scribbling notes into a binder at what seemed like the admission desk for the laboratory of the hospital; and the last and largest desk labeled "**Reception**" stood in the very middle of the lobby, no one seemingly there.  
Sherlock began walking ahead, John trailing behind as the detective approached the receptionist's desk. The two stopped and waited beside the vacant counter, Sherlock deducing the location of the receptionist by overlooking the contents of her desk while John began to search for a call bell.  
"Next shift's receptionist is coming in ten minutes. Previous one had left already - family issues needing tending to," the middle-aged nurse from the laboratory admission stated loudly from her side of the lobby. John perked up at this and Sherlock merely sniffed the air as he began to approach her.  
"That's a lie," he whispered nonchalantly to John as the two made their way over to the lab desk. "She's got an appointment with her therapist at 7:10." John merely nodded, having grown accustomed to Sherlock's deductions. The two finally reached the desk being manned by the nurse and she greeted them with a forced grin.  
"Hello, how may I help you?" she asked.  
"We're here about that previous receptionist," John began, gesturing to the door,"you know, that one that had just left?" The nurse's forced grin curled into a scowl.  
"What's it to you too? Are you two agents or what? Because let me tell you, she's already been through enough with those damned officers. Brought her to tears, they did."  
"Erm, we _are_, in fact, agents," John uttered uneasily, taken aback by the nurse's attitude. He then got gathered himself together and said, rather firmly, "We just wanted another inquiry on her view and reasoning behind the victim's...'black eyes'."  
"Well, like I said, she's out for the day. Come back earlier tomorrow," the nurse said flatly, although her voice faltered at the beginning of her sentence.  
"You saw the eyes," Sherlock suddenly burst out, just as John began to turn back around and make his way towards the exit. The doctor halted abruptly and glared at the taller man and the nurse, who, surprisingly, was staring up at the detective with panicked eyes as she struggled to regain her composure.  
"I-I have no idea what you're talking about. Please leave if you don't have any business here," the nurse snapped, burying her nose into a binder filled with time sheets as she scrawled random times down.  
"Oh, but you do," Sherlock pried, receiving a look of warning from John. "You saw the eyes as well, but you deny it because of what had happened to you. You fear them and deny seeing them because it had all begun to occur again with the death of that man just as he left the hospital. It's practically written on your face; your father was killed when you were very young, and one of the things you remember are the murderer's eyes; they were black, from the sclera, right down to the pupil."  
The nurse stared at Sherlock with a mixture of confusion, shock, and vulnerability; this man had just read her like a book.  
"H-How...?" she asked, her voice weary and small.  
"The question is not _how_, it's _true_ or_false_; did you or did you not see the victim sporting a pair of black eyes just before his death?" Sherlock demanded, his own eyes wide with anticipation as he stared the woman down.  
"I d-did," the nurse stammered.  
"You weren't delusional? You weren't exposed to extreme heat, didn't consume any caffeine, take any prescriptions-"  
"_Sherlock-_" John interjected, only to be interrupted himself.  
"I was not under the influence of any of the mentioned things," the nurse said in an almost determined manner. "And I assure you that what I saw was not a trick of the eye. That man's eyes were _black_ to the entirety. Please, just find out who's behind this, and leave me be," the nurse now pleaded, turning back to her papers as if to end the conversation. The two men didn't object and, with an apology from John, began to make their way back to the exit. But just before they reached the doors Sherlock pulled John away from their path and lured him to a couch nearby.  
"What are you doi-"  
"Don't think we're leaving yet, do you?" Sherlock asked, glancing up to see that the attention of the nurse was back in her papers. He hid from view under the cover of the couch.  
"I hoped we would," John stated frustratingly after being ushered to follow Sherlock's example by hiding.  
"I mentioned that the victim's body was here, in the morgue. And I'm not wasting the opportunity to look at it."


	7. Escape

Dean fingered the back of his neck slowly, as if expecting to come across a hole in his skin. When he found nothing, he looking wildly at Sam and, to his surprise, Cas. The angel was crouched beside him, observing his actions. Dean shifted uneasily and only then realized he was soaked to the bone, the cold only now making itself known.  
"Are you alright, Dean? Is the abrasion gone?" Castiel asked, his voice burdened with great concern and worry.  
"Yeah, yeah...I'm fine, thanks..." Dean grumbled, beginning to get up with Sam's assistance. "Where's the demon?" the hunter asked, wrenching out his soaked t-shirt.  
"I...took care of him, you could say," Sam said uneasily, looking at the unconscious body only a few feet away. "I've-I've got to get help. I'll...make something up," Sam gestured at the shattered mirror, bloody sink, and the ghastly-looking janitor. He ran his hands through his hair nervously and made his way out of the bathroom, "Dean...just stay put with Cas." But before he could do anything, Castiel moved over to the unconscious janitor, crouched beside him, and placed an unsteady hand on the man's forehead. There was a flash of light, and the janitor's eye restored to its original state.  
Sam turned around on his heels and stared at the angel as he began to "fix" the janitor. After a minute passed, Cas retracted his hand and placed it at his side. The angel stood up and glared at the younger Winchester, the shadows under his eyes looking darker and more gruesome than before.  
"His eye has been restored, his memory is modified, and he will have no recollection of his possession or encounter with either of you," the celestial being stated wearily. Sam's brows furrowed at Cas' strange behavior but he nodded slowly as the burden of getting help was lifted. He then helped Dean drag the body into a stall and prop it up onto the toilet. Afterwards, the two emerged only to see Castiel standing in front of the other non-shattered mirror, poking and prodding at his face.  
"Do I look tired?" Cas suddenly ask, causing the brothers to exchange tense looks.  
"Tired?" Sam questioned, trying to sound oblivious to this very obvious fact.  
"Yes,_tired_. Your reaction to when I had appeared gave the impression that something was wrong with my vessel."  
"The dark rings and red eyes make it look like you hadn't gotten sleep in days, Cas," Dean interjected before Sam could have informed the angel of his appearance a kinder way. Castiel's frown deepened and he looked at the two brothers' reflection in the mirror. There was a span of awkward silence before the angel finally groaned and rubbed his vessel's eyes wearily.  
"The situation with the angels and Heaven has drained me of my power, will, and patience; there's already been three battles with Uriel's rally of angels. And to be honest," Castiel paused, turning around, now looking like the very definition of fatigue, "I can't put up with things anymore. I'm not a leader, and too many have been lost at my fault."  
Dean and Sam stared at their companion, and then glared at one another; neither knew how to respond.  
"It's, uh, it's gonna be alright," Dean began awkwardly, approaching the angel to pat him reassuringly on the shoulder. Sam strayed behind, now feeling guilty for summoning Castiel in such harsh times. It made him seem almost selfish; especially since he himself had told Dean to not get Cas involved back when they were driving to airport. "Hey, you know what?" Dean asked, tearing Sam out of his thoughts. Only then did he notice the question was directed at their colleague.  
"What?" Castiel asked, looking up dejectedly.  
"How about you screw the angels, and join us on our hunt?" the hunter suggested with a grin. At this, the angel's expression seemed to lift ever so slightly, but he still shifted uncomfortably in his spot.  
"I thank you for the offer, Dean, but it'd be egocentric of me to just abandon the situation in Heav-"  
"Who said anything about abandoning? Just take a break for a few days at the least, and then when you're feeling up and about you'll just bounce right back in there."  
"The other angels...Uriel..." Cas trailed off, listing reasons as to why the idea wasn't a bright one.  
"You yourself said you're not a leader, so let someone else bother-"  
"_Dean_," Castiel and Sam both said at the same time. The two exchanged glances, then looked over at the older Winchester. Dean sighed heavily and shrugged his shoulders, raising his hands as if in defense.  
"Alright, alright, jeez," he muttered glumly.  
"What are you two doing in an airport?" Castiel suddenly asked, as if he had just realized this.  
"The case we're working on now is in London," Sam replied, and Dean frowned with displease as he was reminded once more that they had to fly.  
"London? Are there not other hunters in London?" the angel asked.  
"That's the problem; they haven't responded to neither the case or any attempts made to contact them," Dean added.  
"Speaking of not responding," Sam started, looking at the empty bathroom entrance, "why hasn't someone come here yet? When the demon smashed you into that mirror, I heard it a good few yards away from here. Shouldn't have someone heard it too?" Dean and Cas stared at Sam with furrowed eyebrows, only now realizing the same thing.  
As if on cue, all of the toilets down the line of closed stalls flushed in unison, and the rows of automated sinks all turned on, right down to the last faucet.  
"What the hell?" Castiel muttered, turning around to look down the hall of stalls and sinks with his eyebrows furrowed. Right then all of the stall doors flew open, and what seemed like the entirety of the airport staff marched out and faced the trio, their eyes familiar pools of black.  
"Shit," Dean hissed. On reflex, he grabbed the demon knife from the waistband of his pants while Sam extracted his small blade. Castiel, however, glanced at the large amount of demons and then looked back at the two brothers. Just before the first few possessed employees ran forward and made to grab hold of the angel and hunters, Cas pressed his index and middle finger of both hands onto Sam and Dean's foreheads. With a loud flutter of wings, the three individuals that were standing there seconds before were all gone.


	8. Trapped

**(A/N: My apologies for the late update. As you all know, it's school season, and I started about a month back. I've been pretty occupied with homework and various other things, and at the same time had my worst case of writer's block in ages; in fact, I didn't have inspiration while writing this, so I apologize if the chapter seems fruitless and dull.)  
**  
It had been a half-hour already, and the nurse hadn't budged from her station. Sherlock eyed her maliciously as she thumbed through a series of hospital records, correcting them wherever necessary. The pharmacist stationed far off had his view of the duo sitting on the couch blocked, and he himself was considerably old enough to not notice them without glasses on either way.  
"Bullocks," Sherlock hissed, sliding back under the cover of the couch for the fifth time. "She should have gone to use the restroom at this pont. That water she had started drinking after we had departed should have filtered through her immune systems by now, given her obvious bladder problem. Before questioning my theories, you should have paid attention to the contents of her desk; white pill bottles, most likely Proin-"  
"Bloody hell!" John hissed, interrupting the detective's thought process. "Did we hide for you to deduce away a woman's urinary incontinence? If that's the case, I'm leaving."  
"Patience was never once of your best virtues, John," Sherlock replied sharply, not bothering to continue his observations anymore.  
"Dignity was never yours either," John countered, receiving a glare from the detective.  
"She won't let us into the morgue," Sherlock changed the subject abruptly, staring off into space as he tried to formulate a plan in his mind. "The reason being that it opens in two hours."  
"So what are you suggesting? That we sneak in?" The paler male looked at John, a familiar gleam in his blue-green eyes.  
"Considering trespassing now, I see? At least you've finally caught onto my plan," the detective grinned, before looking over the couch one more time. Moments later he slid back down, a smug look plastered onto his face.  
"What is it? Has she left yet?" John questioned, trying to read the expression on his friend's face.  
"Even better. The pharmacist departed as well."

~*~*~

"Come on!" Sherlock urged, rising from the couch and running over to the nurse's desk silently. John trailed behind the taller man, throwing apprehensive looks down the various halls in-between the desks. The detective, however, had snaked his way over the squat desk and began to carefully thumb through documents, searching for something.  
"What are you looking for?" John muttered, feeling useless simply standing there.  
"The key card," Sherlock replied hastily, growing aware of the little amount of time they had. John didn't object to question the detective before he himself peered over the counter and began searching for an admission card. In a matter of moments, John's hand skimmed over a large pair of spreadsheets, causing them to topple over to the side. The doctor felt the breath hitch in his throat at the noise caused by the disruption of papers, but when he looked over at his colleague, he saw the man's expression lift as his eyes settled at an object just beneath John's hand.  
John glanced down in the same direction only to see a small, rectangular plastic card. It had been underneath the papers John accidentally pushed.  
"That's it," Sherlock breathed, practically lunging over the counter to grab it. The detective quickly snatched up the card, slid it into his pocket, and hastily placed every moved object back into its original location.  
The duo scurried past the side of the counter and halted in front of the hall in-between the reception and nurse's desk. Sherlock scanned the directory posted to the left of the entrance, and before John could have attempted reading it himself, the detective was dashing down the hall. Knowing better than to question his colleague's choice, the doctor stumbled down the hallway as well, tailing the detective until the taller man stopped in front of a large, steel, automatic door with a keycard lock positioned just beside it. The door had no handles, hinges, or windows. A small plague above the lock read "M-02".  
Sherlock quickly inserted the card into the scanner, shifting his weight from one foot to the other uneasily as the card was being processed. The detective cast an anxious look down the hall, but a quiet beep caused him to face the door once more. Sherlock's gaze fell back down to the scanner, and the detective found a tiny green light flashing beside the slider, signaling successful entry. The key card popped out again, and John grabbed it, pocketing it. The door hissed, small wisps of condensation leaking out of the corners before it slid open, revealing a short, darkened hall which ended abruptly with a descending stairwell.  
"This is it," Sherlock breathed, his voice barely a whisper. John nodded once and clenched his teeth. Neither of the men were able to admit that they felt rather reluctant doing this, despite how often they had done these sorts of things without batting an eye from the guilt or doubtful thoughts that always lingered. At the same time, something didn't feel right about this either, almost too easy, one could say. Just as quickly as doubt had begun to settle, it dissipated. Sherlock moved forward in an almost-automatic manner, and went through the door. John followed his example and stepped inside the morgue as well.  
Right after the two men stepped inside, there was a familiar hiss and the door slid shut with a loud bang of metal-on-metal, this being a result from the automatic preservation mechanism designed to maintain the cold morgue temperature. Sherlock and John were plunged into bone-chilling temperatures and darkness, which only lasted for a few moments before the faint humming of a generator came into earshot. After the sounding of the generator, lights began to turn on one-by-one until they reached the end of the hall and progressed down into the stairwell.  
Sherlock and John whipped around in opposite directions, John gaping down at the hall while Sherlock eyed the now-shut door, both of their expressions equal to that of an individual who had realized that they had stepped on a mine.  
"Damn," Sherlock cursed, quickly rushing over to the door and starting to feel around the steel surface, which John had only now realized was rid of any features except for yet another simplified keycard lock. This time, however, the card slot was much more narrow than the one located on the other side of the door.  
Instinctively, John fingered the key card within his own pocket, taking it out for further examination. After further analysis, it was apparent that the card wasn't meant for this certain lock mechanism.  
"It won't work," Sherlock suddenly stated, still feeling around the corners of the door, his voice strained and his tone agitated. "The admission card isn't meant for time slot scanner." John cocked an eyebrow, and only them noticed the small rack on the wall, divided into small yet equally sized sections which seemed to be designed for the storage of small cards or papers. _  
_ "A time card rack," John breathed, speaking his thoughts aloud as his stomach dropped. The only card of any sort in the duo's possession was the admission card they'd taken and their personal credit cards. They never considered the possibility of another essential key.  
But that didn't matter anymore. There was no other way out. They were trapped.


	9. London

Sam Winchester had been prepared to strike when the first few demons lunged at him, only to be stunned when Castiel had suddenly whipped around and pressed his fingers to his and Dean's head. Before the hunter could have officially reacted, he was blinded by immensely bright light and was forced to close his eyes as his body was wrenched from side to side violently, as if he were a rag doll.  
Just as quickly as the sensation began, it was over, and Sam found himself sprawled on grassy ground. He realized he was out of breath and that his heart was racing. His clothes and hair were whipped about as if he had been through a wind storm, and he felt extremely disoriented.  
"Dammit..." Sam muttered, slowly raising himself into a sitting position, wincing as a terrible ache in his right temple broke out in accordance with the motion.  
Staggering to his feet, the hunter attempted to stand up straight, ignoring his throbbing head. Sam squinted his eyes in an attempt to overlook the haze that had clouded his mind. Slowly, piece by piece, he recollected his current scenario and began to recall what had happened; two to three minutes passed when the fog cleared completely. The hunter's eyesight sharpened and he looked around, only to see that he was outside, on a small field of grass dotted with various benches and a few large trees. A tiny lake was located a few meters ahead, a fountain placed in the very middle of the murky water. The sky was a clear blue, small hints of dawn still scattered over the horizon.  
Sam glanced down at his watch, and saw the time automatically update to 7:56 a.m. Despite the various questions arising about the hunter's location, a much larger realization made Sam do a double take.  
"_DEAN?! CAS?_" Sam exclaimed, looking around the apparent park frantically. And yet, there was no one in sight. Sam whipped around and nearly ran into a large oak positioned behind him. Cursing, the hunter motioned to maneuver around the tree, only to be stopped when something caught his eye.  
Hanging on a small branch just a few inches above, was a beige, tattered piece of cloth. Sam quickly approached it and plucked it off the branch, only to inhale sharply when he realized the cloth was a piece of Castiel's trench coat.  
"_CAS! DEAN!_" Sam shouted again, his voice much more unstable. Clenching his fist around the tattered cloth, Sam moved away from the oak and started running around the park, his voice growing more and more sore with each shout.  
After the various minutes spent yelling, Sam still hadn't caught wind of neither his brother or the celestial being's location. At the same time, the growing ache in Sam's legs forced the hunter to stop and settle against the trunk of a maple tree he had come across. Sam slid down the trunk and nestled on a tangle of roots, gripping the sides of his head with his rough hands, the piece of the coat now mangled in his fist. Sam's head was pounding with pain and overwhelming thoughts of doubt.  
"Where are they?" he asked himself wearily, raising his head to look around once more, as if Dean and Cas would materialize in front of him if he did. As if on cue, a rustling sounded nearby. Alert as he was, Sam reacted immediately to the noise, leaping to his feet and straining his ears to hear more. Looking past the probability that it could have just been some animal, Sam let his hopes get the best of him and he approached the presumed source of the commotion.

~*~*~

With a sharp intake of breath, Dean grew conscious and his eyes snapped open, the sight of a blue sky dotted with small wisps of clouds being the first visual to greet him. On instinct, the hunter quickly rose to a sitting position, only to have his whole head caught in an expanse of leaves and branches.  
"_What the hell?!_" Dean exclaimed, leaning back down only to notice the same uncomfortable sensation extending all over his body. Peering down, the hunter felt his heart skip a beat. Somehow, for some reason, he was up in what seemed to be a tree. Complex tangles of branches and prickly leaves were the only things supporting his weight and stopping him from plummeting to the ground.  
Despite the variety of questions ranging from his location to why he was up in a tree, Dean felt an even larger issue arise in his mind that outweighed all other problems.  
"SAM?!" Dean called, shifting suddenly and causing the branches around him to shake violently. The hunter couldn't have cared less, for all that mattered at that moment was his little brother's location and safety. "_SAM!_"

~*~*~

"_SAM!_" a very familiar voice rang out from the same tree from where the rustling sounded.  
"DEAN!" Sam called back on instinct, breaking into a sprint as he dashed for the tree a few yards ahead. The younger Winchester halted abruptly at the trunk, placing his hands on the rough bark as a means of support as he peered up into the branches above. The sight that met him would have brought him to hysterics if this were any normal day. But this time, Sam felt nothing but waves of relief as the person up above turned their head and peered down at him, the pair of green eyes showing panic, yet relief as well.  
"Jesus Christ, I thought you were-" Dean was precipitously interrupted by a loud groan, followed by a series of sharp snaps. The tree standing before Sam seemed to shudder, and the branches supporting Dean slithered apart, breaking their firm hold.  
Everything happened too quickly for Sam to visually comprehend. At first, everything seemed to be going smoothly. The next second, all branches gave way and Dean was plummeting towards the ground - towards _him_ - shouting a series of curses as he grew closer and closer. Before he was able to extend his arms or react in any way, the weight of his brother took Sam by surprise, and the two tumbled to the ground. Sam yelped in pain as he came into contact with the ground much too quickly and harshly, and all air was knocked out of him. Feeling as if all of his vital organs had been crushed, the younger Winchester sputtered and groaned loudly as a pain spread all around his body.  
Dean, on the other hand, wasn't in such a bad condition, for his brother had unintentionally cushioned his fall. That didn't mean the hunter hadn't been grazed, though. Falling through various branches in no jacket or protective clothing except for his now-tattered jeans and battered t-shirt left the brother vulnerable to various minor lacerations acquired from jagged and broken branches. And yet, despite the ache in his back and arms, Dean found the decency to roll off of his brother and sprawl onto the ground with a moan.  
"Thanks for breaking my fall," Dean wheezed jokingly. Despite his state or the situation, he could never cease to make some witty comment on the scenario. The brothers remained on the ground for a few more seconds before Sam finally stirred, wincing various times as he rose to a sitting position. Slowly beginning to stand, the brother hissed with pain, his spine and torso aching. Despite this, Sam sucked it up and offered a hand to Dean, who groaned and grabbed his brother's hand, tugging all of his body weight upwards with the pull.  
Sam bucked under the weight but eventually managed to pull Dean up, only to flinch when his brother let out a yelp and tumbled to the ground again.  
"_Dammit!_" Dean cursed, his hands quickly encasing his right ankle. The pain in his foot was excruciating, and the hunter couldn't help but let out another chorus of violent words. "I think I twisted it," Dean hissed after he managed to calm down. He slammed the ground with his fist exasperatedly, and extended his arm towards Sam again. "Here, help me up again." Sam didn't object and helped the hunter rise once more. This time, Dean rose on his left foot, keeping his right foot loosely on the ground without applying any weight to it. Dean gripped Sam's shoulder and leaned into him, but didn't permit the younger Winchester from supporting him further.  
"What do you suggest we do? I don't have any idea where we are," Sam said wearily.  
"_Cas_," Dean suddenly blurted out, only now just realizing the angel's absence. "_Where is he_?" He completely ignored his own situation and placed the celestial being above all other concerns.  
"I didn't see-" Sam was interrupted by the crackling of static coming from up ahead.  
"The hell was that?" Dean muttered, straining to see the source of the noise. His answer came almost immediately.  
Approaching the duo were two thin guards, this being apparent by their matching beige uniforms and hats, which had **SECURITY **written on the front. One guard had a similar stature to Dean, and the other was rather short and plump. Both were balding and had crooked noses.  
"Oi! What are you two doing?!" the plump guard shouted, his deep voice laced with a thick British accent.  
"Trespassers! The park doesn't open until 8 on Saturdays, you buggers!" the taller guard shouted, his voice also hinting a British accent.  
Sam and Dean stood frozen in place, unable to understand what was happening.  
"_Trespassers? _Sorry, but I think you've got it all wrong-"  
"Damned American tourists," the plump guard interjected rudely. "Get away from one another, and raise your hands in the air! You are violating the law by being in this park during closing hours. You're going with us to the Yard."  
"My ankle's twisted; I'm in no state to move on my own and I sure as hell am not some '_American tourist_', asshat," Dean snapped.  
"Hey, hey, we didn't mean to trespass," Sam interfered, flashing Dean a look of warning, "we were just here at the wrong place and the wrong time. Take us wherever, but my brother needs medical attention first." The guards tensed up, the shorter one growing partially red at Dean's response. They both scowled and furrowed their eyebrows.  
"'_Wrong place, wrong time_', that's what they always say," the taller guard muttered before he approached the duo and brought out a baton. "Fine, but you're being escorted by us, and we'll make sure _both_ written up for this." Immediately the guard moved to the back of the brothers and jabbed them both in the back with the baton harshly, urging them forward. Dean bit down on his lip to stop himself from cursing at the guard, and hopped forward, Sam guiding him after the shorter man ahead of them.  
Surprisingly, the brothers hadn't been far from the entrance. Only 5 minutes passed until they reached the tall fence engraved with intricate designs. Above the gate entrance, a plaque reading "Hyde Park" was posted. Sam took mental note of this as he shuffled out of the park after the guard.  
"I think we're in London," the younger Winchester mumbled so that only his brother heard.  
"I got the hint," Dean muttered, gesturing at the guards.  
"What are going to do about Cas?" Sam questioned as the guards guided them down the sidewalk and urged them into a silver Vauxhall Ampera, the latest car model adopted by the metropolitan police system. Dean contorted his body so that barely any weight was administered onto his right foot as he slid into the leather seat. Sam followed after and the taller guard slammed the door shut. Like all other cars, a thick metal mesh split the car in half and didn't permit the passengers in back to make any means of physical contact with the driver and his accomplice in front.  
"I don't know," Dean admitted, leaning forward and peering into the park desperately. "I don't have the slightest clue where he is, or what state he's even in. You saw him back at the airport, he looked like a dead man walking. Using some of his mojo to teleport us all over here must have done something to him."  
"That gives us all the more reason to find him."  
"I know, but if you haven't noticed, we're kind of stuck in a police car."  
Right at that moment the two guards slid into their own seats up front, apparently having discussed how to approach the current situation. The slender guard was in the driver's seat, and he revved up the engine.  
"Twisted ankle, you say?" he questioned, directing the question at Dean without looking behind him.  
"That is the stupidest quest-"  
"_Yes_," Sam cut Dean off mid-sentence. "Yes, his ankle's twisted," Sam repeated, pursing his lips when the other guard turned around and glared Dean in the eye.  
"Listen 'ere, you ought to show us some respect. You both should be bloody grateful we're even considering taking you to a hospital, and not directly to the Yard," the guard fumed.  
"Wait, which hospital?" Dean inquired suddenly, sitting up to hear better. The chubby guard scowled in displease, and seemed reluctant to answer.  
"London Bridge."


	10. Symbol

The doctor manning the pharmacy finished organizing the last of his prescriptions, and finally settled in his spot and went back to work, copying down the contact information of individuals and patients currently within the hospital requesting medicine.  
"Vlad," a voice suddenly sounded from above. The pharmacist looked up casually, and sighed when she saw that it was the pediatrician from across the lobby.  
"What is it, Ruth?"  
"I sense that we are not alone." On instinct, the man shifted to the side and looked up ahead at the main hospital entrance, only to see a vacant lobby and entryway. Partially confused, he moved back to his original position and eyed the woman in front of the counter. She seemed to be acting strange; conversations weren't every this awkward.  
"Of course we're not alone, there's 16 patients and about 32 faculty-"  
"Not in that sense," Ruth interjected, flashing Vlad a look. Vlad raised an eyebrow, and began to open his mouth to say something.  
Only moments after Ruth's comment, however, a series of bangs sounded from the middle corridor of the lobby; the pharmacist recognized the sound as fists on metal, and he slowly turned around to face his colleague with wide eyes. The man stood up and turned around, straining his ears to hear better.  
"What was that?" He asked, voice laced with worry.  
"That is not of your concern," Ruth suddenly spat. Vlad whirled around only to freeze at the sight of the woman in front of him. Ruth's eyes were crimson, right down to the sclera. "I suggest you sit down," Ruth added, whipping out a gun and grinning wildly at the man in front of her.  
On instinct, the man lunged to the side, shoving his chair to the side and running down the closest hall to the her right. But only seconds later a large bang sounded and a white-hot sensation of pain spread began in the pharmacist's torso. Looking down at his uniform, he saw a large red stain blossoming around the region of his stomach. Immediately, the doctor fell to his knees and gripped at the wound, the pain tripling in intensity. Shouting out in pain, the man quickly looked back to see the status and location of his attacker, only to see her move away from him desk and enter the hall from where the noise sounded; she didn't come to finish him off.  
Whoever or whatever was in the morgue was the target.

~*~*~

"Bloody hell!" John cursed after his fourth physical attempt of opening the door failed. The doctor only then noticed, however, that Sherlock wasn't near the door, and hadn't been helping this whole time. John stood up straight and turned around, only to see the detective leaning lazily against the wall beside the stairwell.  
"Are you done?" the taller man asked flatly.  
"Done?" John inquired.  
"Yes, are you done idly prying the door?"  
"I'm trying to get us out of here!" John exclaimed, outraged.  
"We aren't getting out anytime soon. We don't have any time cards, and the morgue itself opens in about an hour," Sherlock stated nonchalantly.  
"Well, what do you suggest then? That we wait and see whose fingers fall off from the cold first?" Sherlock rolled his eyes and sighed heavily.  
"John, why don't you just _think_? We've got access to a _morgue_. Despite us being stuck in here, we might as well make the best of it and do what we originally came here for; investigate that body." Almost immediately the doctor's expression went blank. John didn't want to admit that he felt rather stupid for not realizing the detective' motive sooner. Of course he wanted to get out, but John couldn't help but agree with Sherlock; this was their chance to get a better look at the body without the threat of interference.  
As if he had read the doctor's mind and sensed the mental agreement, the detective grinned and proceeded down the stairs. John walked down the remainder of the hall, hesitated for a split second at the first stair, but then eventually began to progress downward. As he descended, John felt the temperature dropping by 5 degrees every 2 steps. It wasn't until a few moments later when the thought of descending into a cold room filled with corpses unnerved John more than he liked, despite the fact that he worked with the sick and wasn't new to the sight of a dead body.  
After finally reaching the official morgue, John took in a deep breath and held it. The room was enormous, the walls all lined with metal vaults. Some were open, some shut. Various carts burdened pale bodies, and were all scattered around the room. Very few of the bodies were actually "open", one could put it. Some were in the process of being stitched up, while one or two corpses had their entrails exposed. Sherlock didn't seem moved by this, for his step didn't falter as he walked past some of the carts. John couldn't help but notice the detective intentionally looking at the corpses, keeping his gaze held longer on the bodies which were still in need of stitching. And yet, at the same time, the man was reading the toe tags. At this, John realized that he had never actually asked Sherlock for the victim's name.  
"Jonathan Lennertz," Sherlock suddenly said, snapping John out of his thoughts.  
"Pardon?"  
"Victim's name." Without further question, John moved past Sherlock and began to scan the bodies and their tags. Despite his hesitance, John wanted to keep himself occupied, that being better than simply sitting and waiting until discovered when the morgue officially opened. After minutes of searching, John halted to scan the tag of a bulky male, whose short black hair was messily slicked back, his nose so crooked that it appeared as if he had broken it various times in various places. Tiny scars lined the man's face and neck, and John immediately found himself wondering about the man's profession and hobbies.  
"Him," Sherlock blurted out, and John was brought back to reality once more. The doctor looked up in a daze, his thoughts scattered.  
"Who?" However, the doctor registered what the detective said again, and grew tense. Slowly, he peered down at the toe tag and read the scribbles. Unsurprisingly, the tag read '_Jonathan Lennertz - Thursday'._  
"Move." John moved back on instinct, and the detective brushed past him in a hurry. Moving to the side of the cart, John kept a small distance and observed Sherlock, making sure that the detective didn't alter the corpse's appearance, knowing that they would be in enough trouble if they were simply caught in here, more or less if they were caught whipping or prodding a corpse.  
Fortunately, the detective only made to grab the tarp covering the victim from head to ankle. Sherlock pulled it back just past the end of the man's rib cage before he stopped and rested the tarp once more. The only thing revealed, however, was the long line of stitches going down the middle of the man's torso.  
"Damn," Sherlock hissed, shifting the body gently so that he was able to peer low and get a glimpse of the back and shoulders. Apparently the detective found nothing for he released the corpse and let out an exasperated sigh. Before John was able to ask what the man was looking for, Sherlock crouched and made his way over to the man's feet. The detective then pulled the tarp up just past the knee, and a grin sprouted on his face. "Bingo," the taller man said, and motioned John over to him. The doctor obliged and stopped beside his flatmate, unsure of what 'Bingo' was.  
"Is there an abrasion? A sign of resistance? What?"  
"A tattoo," Sherlock replied, still smiling. John felt his hopes drop. A tattoo? What good would a tattoo do?  
"A tattoo?" John repeated, cocking an eyebrow. "What does that have to do with anything?"  
"Did you take a symbology course in University?"  
"Er, yes, but-"  
"Take a look for yourself," the detective interrupted, looking as if he was giddy with joy. John, still unsure of how and why a tattoo would bring the duo any closer to figuring out why there were increased phosphoric levels in the victim prior to death, followed Sherlock's gaze down to the corpse's inner calf. In that area was a circle-of-sorts inked into the skin.  
"I still don't understand," John began, peering closer at the circle to see that it contained a star that the doctor almost immediately recognized to be a pentagram, and sported a ring of flames around it. "Jonathan was a Satanist?"  
"Actually, this is an anti-possession symbol," Sherlock stated matter-of-factly. "Based on lore and my sources, this tattoo would give one some kind of "spiritual security" when it comes to demons; pentagrams ward off demons and negative spirits."  
"I thought you were an atheist."  
"I am, but research is key to finding the person behind this," Sherlock stated, then looked directly at John, a gleam of curiosity in his eye. "And I have a feeling that this tattoo will lead us to him."  
"How so?" John questioned. The detective then placed his finger onto the tattoo, slightly shifting the leg to the side. When the tattoo was fully revealed, the doctor's eyes hovered over to the large burn cutting halfway inside the tattoo; it broke the pattern. The burn appeared fresh.  
"Jonathan died on Thursday; this was three days ago. That wound looks extremely fresh, _as is acquired three days ago._"


	11. Deception

"Son of a bitch," Dean hissed, clenching his fists in an attempt to feel pain somewhere other than his foot. The car was too cramped for the hunter's tall stature and he couldn't reach down to his throbbing ankle to do something about the ache.  
"No profanity," the guard at the driver's seat stated flatly, as if he couldn't have cared less. Dean's face contorted into an expression of aggravation and he stuck up his middle finger at the driver before he could have stopped himself. Sam saw the gesture and slapped down his brother's hand, quickly looking up and growing less tense when he noticed that neither of the guards saw Dean flip them off.  
"_I swear to God-_" Sam began, only to be interrupted by a squeal of brakes.  
"We're here," the guard in the passenger seat mumbled, while the car halted abruptly in front of a large glass building. The driver parked the car and the two guards got out, each taking a side of the car. The slender guard opened the door to Sam's side, while the smaller one opened Dean's. The older Winchester was pulled onto the curb while Sam was handcuffed with his hands in front. The brothers exchanged uneasy glances after the finalizing click secured the cuffs, but were forced to look away from each other when Dean was forcefully turned around and pulled towards the hospital entrance.  
Sam and the slender guard trailed behind the duo as they made their way into the building, the short guard pushing open the doors. A cool breeze greeted the group of men upon entrance, and they walked into the vacant lobby, seeming to intrude on the seemingly-calm atmosphere of the hospital.  
"Sit down," the guards commanded in unison, gesturing to the couches nearby. The brothers didn't protest and went to seat themselves, partially dumbstruck with how naive the officers were. Dean hobbled over to Sam and the two plopped down on the couch with sighs of content.  
"At least I know why everything's just one train wreck after another; broken mirrors are seven years bad luck," Dean joked, wincing as the ache in his foot worsened.  
"This isn't funny; your ankle's twisted, we have no idea where Cas is, and we don't have any of our luggage, files, or weapons for the case or for protection."  
"My point exactly," Dean remarked. The hunters remained quiet after that, knowing that they couldn't risk running off, especially with Dean's condition and Sam's cuffed hands; neither of the men were acquainted with a map of London either.  
Sam sighed heavily, and looked off to the side randomly, only to see something that made the man do a double take.  
"Oh my God," the hunter breathed, jabbing Dean urgently in the ribs, not taking his eyes off of what he was seeing.  
"What the hell-"  
"_Look_," Sam persisted, pointing at the hall to the right of the pharmacists' station. Dean furrowed his eyebrows and looked to where his brother was pointing. Immediately, he felt his gut drop. Lying sprawled on the ground at the beginning of the hall, was an unconscious man. He was laying flat on his face, the entirety of his back soaked red in what appeared to be blood.  
Dean's eyes widened at the visual, and he felt himself grow tense. He glanced behind him at the guards, only to see that they were approaching the duo with alarming urgency. The guards stationed themselves in front of the brothers, blocking their view of the body. Sam couldn't help but notice how intentional the gesture seemed to be, and he grew much more uneasy at that observation.  
"Up," the plump guard commanded, his voice cold. The hunters hesitated for a moment, but both rose to their feet anyways, Dean with some support from Sam. As if they knew that Sam would be able to see the body over the their heads given his height, the guards immediately took hold of the brothers and led them to the end of the lobby - away from the bloody scene they had witnessed.  
The guards led the brothers towards the last hall, located all the way to the right of the lobby. They entered the corridor, and were pulled into the first room on the left. Upon the opening of the door, the Winchesters were met with the repelling smell of rubbing alcohol and synthetic gloves. The room they had entered was vacant and large; many empty beds, monitors, and I.V.'s lined the walls. Various tables and counters were positioned all throughout the bleach-white room, some sporting canisters filled with bodily fluids, others harboring needles and medical equipment.  
A short nurse approached the group of men upon their entering into the room, and she paused uneasily for a moment.  
"Er, how may I help you?" she asked, her accented voice quiet and frail.  
"Convict's got a twisted ankle," the short guard responded nonchalantly, gesturing to Dean.  
"Ah, alright," the nurse nodded, her ponytail bouncing in accordance with the movement. "Lead him over there." She gestured to the first bed beside the door. Sam led Dean over to the said bed and helped him onto it. Meanwhile, the slender guard pulled the nurse out of the room for a brief exchange of words.  
After the door closed the guard double-checked for any spectators, and only then faced the shorter woman, who was looking up at him with questioning look in her eyes.  
"Shouldn't I be tending to-"  
"I don't want you helping that man; load him up with morphine until he can't think straight," the guard hissed. The nurse felt her mouth fall open, her eyebrows raising.  
"W-What...? But his ankle-"  
"Do_not_ help that man, or it'll be the last thing you'll ever do."


End file.
